You Only Die Once
by toadstoolcouch
Summary: Seth writes a story where he tortures his lover and brother, Pickles, to death. Incest, slash, extreme, graphic


"Hey," Seth said through a grin. "I wrote you a story."

Pickles took the stapled notebook papers his brother thrust at his hands with a frown. "A story?"

"Ya. Remember how I told you when we were kids I used to fantasize about torturing you to death?"

With color rising to his cheeks, Pickles grunted, "You wrote a story about that?"

"Ya," Seth answered, unable to suppress his grin. Putting a hand to his mouth, Seth said, "K, well, lemme know what you think when you're done, k?" He left without an answer.

Raising an eyebrow, Pickles looked after him, then ventured to the first page.

You wake up in the dark. As you try to move, you realize you're attached to the wall by cuffs, your hands at the level of your head, arms outstretched, but not all the way. You can't move your feet much more than directly beneath you. As you start to hyperventilate, you can feel that you're not wearing your collar.

Your head aches terribly, all your joints on fire, and your wrists are especially chafed. The sweat trickling off your skin makes where you are bound engagingly itchy, but even rubbing yourself against the cuffs is no relief. There's a stale feeling in your mouth, as if you have been there for a long time. You can't even begin to remember what could have happened to land you here.

When the lights snap on you turn your head and squeeze shut your stinging eyes. I walk down the steps slowly, watching you watch me. You seem relieved to see me, but but only slightly. We've done this kind of thing so many times before, but that flicker of dread in your eyes tells me you know that this time, something is different. Something is wrong.

As I near you, your eyes once again close and your hips learn towards me. As much as that heart inside your sweating chest pounds with fear, it pounds for lust, too. We both know it. "I've wanted to do this for a long time, Pickles," I tell you after a tender kiss.

You give me the most priceless look of confusion and dread as I pull my from my pocket a little baggie. You probably didn't even notice it hanging from my jeans. I thrust your head back against the wall and hold your nose closed until you sputter for air, and then I pour the contents of the baggie down your throat just as you gasp. Desperately you try to cough and spit, but it's already too late; All those dusty particles are now coating your throat and the back of your mouth, and your eyes bug from the pain. You see, while you were passed out down here I crushed the glass from a light bulb into that same fine powder you just breathed in. A soft spray of blood is ejected when you cough, and the tears are now flowing freely. From now on even the smallest breath or sound you make will cause those tiny shards to dig and tear and rip you apart from the inside. It is at this moment, as you stare into my cold eyes and my heartless smirk, as you choke on your own breath and your fists shake against the cuffs, that you realize you're going to die.

Even so, you're still hard. As I rest my brow on yours, I breathe hard into your face and reach down. Your body tenses and a bedraggled kind of rasp forces from your throat as I rub my thumb along the head of your cock. With my other hand I gently sweep your bottom lip, in search of any stray shards until it's safe to kiss you. Little rouge shards tingle against my tongue as I shove it into your mouth, but I don't care about the pain or the blood. I press your tongue down, I shove it out of the way, and reach down your throat, while my hand holds your cock in a tight grip. You open wide for me, you close your lips over mine and for this moment we share a passion, just like any normal day.

When our lips part you stare up at me, begging with those desperate eyes for an explanation. If I talk to you, will you feel better? Does it even matter what I say at this point? But you do need the gift of my voice, don't you? I'm sorry, but the loneliness, the despair that clouds your face as regard you as already dead is just too beautiful for me to resist.

I have another surprise from my pocket and a battered little sound escapes when I flash it in front of your face. It's a pair of scissors, the ones from the kitchen, actually. Just for your amusement, my love, I play with them, snipping the air by your nose, licking the edges, twirling them through your hair. And then I open them and slip them through your ear. I gaze at you for a few seconds while I press them closed very slowly. You feel the cold edges, the pressure, and then crunch! Snap! In one decisive move the ear is snipped clean off and you're screaming. Trying to, anyway. I pick it up and show it to you before tossing it across the room. You're shaking so hard as I go far the other ear I have to hold you still with a knee to the gut.

With a sweet peck on the forehead, I leave you, but only for a few minutes. You're writhing, choking on your pitiful, restricted sobs.

You're afraid to look at the box in my arms, aren't you?

Delicately I pull barbed wire from the box. Razor wire, actually. I put on gloves that protect my fingers. You get pale, but you hold still and stand up straight like a good boy as I complement your shackles with the wire. I circle a length around your neck and with special clasps I had special ordered, I close it in the back. Then I affix another length, one end attached to your makeshift collar, the other to a hook about a foot above your head. This allows you to move only a few inches. Then, the same deal around your waist, and I'm done with the wire. It's all you can do to control yourself just enough so you don't behead yourself.

The way I grin at you tells you that maybe you should. Do you think you have the strength to drive your throat through that razor wire? Are you able to put yourself through pain in order to save yourself from more? At whose hands do you want to die, yours, or those of your loving husband's?

Once more in the dark. I use this time to have a smoke, watch a bit of TV. You are struggling to keep standing, and to keep from sobbing. It hurts just too fucking much, but you can't help it. I've given you this way out, as morbid as it is, but there's something inside you that's telling you to hold on. Why would I want to kill you? You're thinking, I can always get new ears. I can get my throat patched up. I'm rich enough to get a whole new fucking face if I want. Who needs ears anyway?

You just can't bring yourself to believe that I would go this far.

After about an hour I come back and turn on those lights again. Your whole body is trembling, sweating, pale. Just keeping yourself straight for so long has sapped so much energy from you. Your waist and throat are decorated with wispy lines of rich red, with dark tendrils lacing down your skin. The blood gathered on the razors' edges sheen and twinkle under the flood lights.

You don't look at me as I come near. You flinch and jump as I blow smoke into your face. You already know what I'm gonna do with my cigarette, don't you? I can't even count how many times I've put my smokes out on you, but in all those times I never burned your face.

I dangle the cig in my fingers close to your face, not unlike many times before. In the past, you knew I would never dare mark up your face, your beautiful face. Not just for myself, but for you too. I would never be so selfish as to make your life harder than it has to be at work, wouldn't want a fan asking you during a CD signing event what those nasty scars on your face were from.

But this will be your last night alive, bro. No one will see you after this, and you know, I've always wondered how a pattern of burn marks would look on your face. It's fun to make your red, puffy eyes follow the cherry. What a delicious way to fuck with you. The heat, with the glowing tip just barely searing the hairs that stand up along your pale skin. You know I'll burn you, but you don't know exactly where. Already your body is trembling from fatigue, and your breath is ragged. Drawing this out is part of the torture, babe, but you don't have to worry too much. I believe in quality over quantity.

After a nice long drag I put the tiny fire out on your cheek, right beneath the eye. Your head shakes and turns, but that only forces a bigger burn than I intended, so I laugh. That didn't kill my flame, so I breathe some life into it and ash on your face. I'd figure some ash would be the least of your worries, but there you are, struggling and spitting.

I tell you to open your mouth, but you don't. Yesterday you'd have tripped over yourself to obey my simplest of commands, but now look at you. You're giving me the ugliest glare you have the energy for, those half closed, weepy eyes alive only for hatred and fear. Well, I'm not mad. You have every right to disrespect your murderer.

It's more fun to force you anyway. With the cig in my mouth I pry open yours and then extinguish the flame on your tongue. Your cries are delicious, muffled sounds, and the pain of forcing so much sound through the suspended glass inspires even more destructive screams. There is so much blood around your mouth now, and mixed with your spit it dribbles freely down your chin, and it sprays all over me when you cough or yell.

Already you're looking at me with dead eyes, as if pleading for this to end. But it's not the pain, is it? You love pain, and by God you've always taken my abuse like a fucking trooper. This time, though, it's the betrayal you can't take. How could I do this to you? After spending our lives together, one way or another, since childhood, after our marriage, and after I formally collared you. Our love was our life; intense, overwhelming. Nothing in this world could be stronger.

I have protected you for years. I've beaten up bullies for you, taken the beatings from Dad for you. I've always made sure you were safe, even when we played.

Today is different. Today is our last day, and we're going out with a fucking bang. The sight of tears on your swollen face, the terror as you look up at me, your body shaking when I bring my hands closer. You have worshiped me as any slave should since we've been together, and now I will reward you with one more fantastic night, with suffering like you've never imagined.

And then, I'll die too. Before I started this I took some pills that will release their poison in a predetermined time. It's not even an option that I live without you.

By now you're drooling blood and sagging. Look how lazy you are, just hanging there with slack eyes.

"Wake up!" I yell. "We've barely started." I give your face a tender caress and then a hard slap. You suck in air, and there's just barely a guttural echo in your chest. The pain of that glass in your throat is just not worth a cathartic screech, now is it? Glass or not, I'll get some good, gut wrenching screams out of you soon enough.

I smash my knuckles into your cheek. You close your eyes, and tears dribble from them. I leave you for just a second and then come back with a scalpel. When I bring it to your face you struggle, although you're careful with the barbed wire at your waist and throat.

"Hold still," I say as I tug an eyelid away from the eye. Those wretched, creepy sounds are in my ear as I very carefully, patiently cut if off. It's a real challenge to keep you still and cut at the same time without poking your eye. "Shh, just relax," I say as I go for the next one. You're shaking so bad, I can feel your heart slamming even if I barely touch the skin on your chest with one finger.

What to do with your eyelids? These flimsy, gooey shreds of flesh stick to my fingers, and I flick one onto the wall and put the other in your mouth. You spit it out, of course, and I just chuckle and kick it to the side.

You can't close your eyes on me anymore. You can't escape my heartless stare or the sight of your blood all over me. With a soft, throaty sigh I drag my tongue from your chin to your eyebrow, catching your tears and blood down my throat, and then I play with your piercings with my tongue. I can feel your ragged breathing from the heaving of your chest against mine, and it speeds up when you feel my teeth grip one of the those silver hoops. You know what I'm gonna do, but I make you wait. Three times I exhale on your face with the hoop in my teeth before I yank. The first time I failed to rip it out, but the second time the flesh in your eyebrow gives way. I pluck the others out the same way and spit them out at your face, where they bounce and clatter on the floor.

I run my fingers through your hair now. I always loved your hair when you were younger, how thick and fluffy and beautiful it was. Whether frizzed up or allowed to hang down, floating around your face, that bright red mane might as well have been the bow to complete the package, and just the feeling of it running past my fingers was sensuous by itself.

I hated your current 'do for a while, but by now it's become just as irreplaceable on you as the old one. It's like you're trying to be a bad ass rocker dude who's all grown up and mature now. How adorable. I can still push my fingers into a mass of soft red hair and easily yank a fistful. There's a sharp gurgling sound in your throat as I tug your head back by a clump of dreads. You look ghoulish with unnatural wide, red rimmed eyes, a pale face and blood oozing down your lips. Is this the effect your band is going for with their ridiculous makeup? I give you a sneer and then lean down to lick your lips.

How delightful that you're still hard. I'm amazed. I give your cock a few yanks before strapping it up with a ring. Even the pleasure you manage to get from this will be cause for agony. My lips are curled up, my teeth glinting. You have never seen me like this. Blood lust has overtaken me, I need your pain as I need air. You're past fear by now. I beat you for a while against your chest and gut. I even whip off my belt and bash you with it too. But I'm leaving your face alone. It's too beautiful to fuck up. One punch to the ribs and there's a wet crack and a scream that reminds me of how deaf people talk.

Your body is a mess of sweat and bright red streaks and a reddish cloud around the spot on your ribs. The sight of you like this drives me into a frenzy, and it's all I can do to not beat you to death. As much as my arms shake and cry out for the hideous violence, I still have almost an hour of my own life life, and I will not face that alone.

A grab for your chin and a vicious snarl helps me calm down, and the terror in your eyes warms me. My free hand holds your cock and feels it grow harder, more desperate as I drown you with my breath and lusty growls, and for a moment it's like old times.

And then I reach out to bend one of your fingers till it breaks. I still have my lips locked with yours as I break the rest of them on both hands. Frantic with pain, you crunch down on my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. I don't try to stop you. I sigh and close my eyes at the pain, which is so sudden and invigorating, especially since it will be the last I will ever feel.

While you wheeze I get a hammer from the box and finish the job on your fingers. Blood spurts and gets all over the place with every smash. You can't help but watch me annihilate your hands. Gore gets on your eyeball, and in your mouth and mine. While you spit it out I suck it down with a loud slurp.

The taste is so harsh, and my first reaction is to gag, but I want more. Neither one of us will be leaving this basement alive so fuck it, I'm gonna see what this is like.

A slap to the face discourages you from passing out. I hold one of your hands open and take a bite, ripping the hanging flesh from what's left of your palm. It's so gooey, it's disgusting. I'm just as horrified as you that I'm chewing your tendons and skin like this, but fuck if that doesn't get me even harder. I wipe my mouth with my hand and then unlock all your bindings and cut the wire, struggling with your flesh in the back of my throat. There are deep cuts from the wire and your wrists and ankles have been flayed raw. You fall into my arms and I gently lower you to the floor, where I kneel over you.

"Please," you rasp. I wait. "Kill me." It takes so much strength to force those words out, I have to hand it to you. I smile and touch your face.

"Not yet, Dillon."

But I will soon. I can feel the poison starting to work. Already it's staring to get very cold in here, and it's a little hard to breathe...

I might not have time for everything I've planned, so I'm gonna get straight to the best part.

With your body the way it is, I don't have to worry about you getting away. I push your legs open and strip. I want to feel your skin one last time, I wanna feel your blood slick and hot against me. Using your blood as lube, I fuck you, with your legs pulled up over my shoulders. Your poor cock, it's practically purple by now, and your face is twisted in agony. I fuck you hard enough to force noise from you, but not so hard as to make you faint.

After a few minutes I pull out and go back to my box.

When you see the knife in my hand your body slumps and your eyes shine with relief, but for nothing, darling. Your head tilts back as I drag the point down your cheek and neck slowly. I slide it past your throat and let the edge dig into your skin. It slices through the nipple I scarred up with my cig all those years ago and gives your belly a lovely pattern of red. Your body shakes uncontrollably as I stroke your cock with it, and when I give the head a little slice, you give me that loud, heartfelt scream I've been waiting for.

With a soft lick along the cuts on your chest I force the knife up your ass, and you howl and your body twists. Your mangled hands flail and reach for anything, even though they can't possibly grab a hold. There's a stream of gore on my cheek from where a hand fumbled, and I just shake if off best I can and dig into you deeper and harder. Unable to close your eyes, you have no choice but to stare into mine. I 'm sure that with all the blood and bits of flesh on my face, dripping from my mustache, coating my teeth, I must look just as ghastly as you, missing eyelids and all.

The look of horror on your face is magnified into something grotesque as I drag the knife along the perineum. The knife is serrated; I can feel it sawing through you and your screams are chillingly appropriate.

I would go ahead and castrate you, but I need you conscious, my love, just for a little while longer. The poison is spreading faster than I thought it would.

With some effort, I heave my stiff bones over you and fuck you again, moaning from how exquisite it feels. You blood and the ripped up flesh is hot and soft and pliant against me, but I left just enough of you down there to resist me. I slow down and slap you a few times when you look faint, and then go on with full force. This will be the last time I will ever fuck you, baby brother. I'm letting myself go. You think I fucked you hard on our wedding night, shit. I can almost feel your organs I ram into you so hard. you're gasping and retching with every thrust. Did my knife tear out your prostate, lover? Why is your cock purple and almost busting through the ring? Your hard on is just too beautiful to ignore. I was going to make you suffer it, but I'll be merciful tonight. After three vigorous pumps of my bloody hand you're spraying all over me, and blood showers from your mouth with your violent howl. It's this agonized note that pushes me over the edge, and I scream my heart out into your mouth, and just as our breath mixes into one hot cloud, so does our blood.

The force of my climax is so overwhelming, it's almost enough to finish the poison's job, but I fight the cold and the lethargy and scramble to my knees. There is still so much to be done. After giving you a sweet kiss I cut an x into your belly, careful to cut only an inch deep, and then I turn you over to the side. Your face blanches as you watch you guts tumble out and flap on the floor. You then give me a far away look; you know that death will be soon. It's coming for me too; I can feel my joints locking up and a horrible burning in my lungs. Weakly we stare at each other, expressionless, soundless. You can tell I'm dying, can't you?

What's left of our lives is fading, and our fingers touch. There is one more kiss. I practically fall on you as I lean down, and you let my tongue in. You moan as I push my hand through the hole in your belly but otherwise you're calm, and you use your last strength to return my kiss.

I can only imagine how much it must hurt to have my arm forcing its way past your organs, fingers catching and ripping up whatever's in the way, but what does it matter now?

The room is getting dark, I can barely see your face, and I can't help but panic. So little time.

I only read about this from some psycho's confession transcripts. I'm scared that I won't reach your heart in time. I'll be dead any minute, but you, Dillon, you'll linger for hours if I don't make it.

My fingers are like cement, and it's like being in a dream forcing through the flesh, around the heart. I squeeze...

Fin

***

Pickles was sweating. He exhaled heavily as he put the story down. He started to get up, and gasped at the hard on bulging in his pants.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed. "I am sick."

He found his brother a little later in the garage, buried in the engine of his CRX. When he heard Pickles approach, Seth put down the hood and wiped his hands on a rag, grinning eagerly.

While Pickles stepped forward slowly, Seth sauntered, and he snatched the papers from his brother's hand and tossed them behind his shoulders. In one deft motion he took Pickles in one arm, swept him onto his back on the hood of the car, and pressed his thumb into the other's throat.

Sliding his other hand up Pickles' shirt, he smirked, "Well?"

Pickles was blushing and still out of breath from what just happened. When he breathed in deeply, he was half surprised that he could without searing pain.

"Yer, yer a Hellova writer, dood," he stammered. Seth shoved his hand down his brother's pants, wrapping it around the erection.

"Fuck the style, jackass, what about the content?"

Pickles stuttered a few un-intelligible words as he melted into the other's hand, and finally said, "Jesus Seth, fucking intense!"

"Did you like it?"

"Yes."

Seth sneered, "I can tell." As he leaned down to kiss him, Pickles spread his legs and pushed himself against the other's body. He panted and clutched his brother's arms at the aching, rough bite on his neck and gave his lips willingly when the other sought them.

"Seth," he whispered. "Would you, would you really do that?" Seth lifted his head and Pickles saw how pale he had become.

"What, Jesus God, no! Don't even say that, of course not!" He smothered the redhead with his arms and kissed him savagely. "One thing's for sure though, babe," breathed huskily in the other's ear. "If you die before me, I'm following right behind ya."

They kissed and Seth bit Pickles' bottom lip. Panting on each other, the couple rubbed their groins together. The car was rocking beneath them.

"If only I could come back to life," Pickles whispered, grabbing Seth's nape

"O, fuck yes!" Seth growled. "I'd kill you ever fucking day!"

They kissed while Pickles helped his brother unzip his pants.

"Your story was so hot, Seth," Pickles moaned.

"There's plenty I can do that wont' kill you, bro," Seth growled. Pickles just sighed, his heart pounding. He yelped and pressed himself against the other when he bit his neck hard on the jugular. Seth pressed his thumbnail into the head of his brother's cock, making the redhead yell and writhe in his arms, and then he stroked it and stole a quick kiss.

"Hurt me," Pickles whispered, gyrating.

"What was that?" Seth sneered. He was grinding into his brother's thigh.

"Please, hurt me!" he repeated, only louder. His cheeks were bright red, and he kept his eyes closed, but he said it again. Seth pulled his head back by a fistful of dreads and Pickles stared up at him with an equal intensity of fear and desire.

"I will," Seth whispered. "I'm in no rush this time."

The End


End file.
